


Liberation

by the_blue_fairie



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: F/F, Introspection, Nudism, Nudist!Elsa, Self-Reflection, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_blue_fairie/pseuds/the_blue_fairie
Summary: For Elsa, nudity does not represent vulnerability but strength. An introspective Elsa piece with a touch of sweet and heartfelt Elsamaren at the end.
Relationships: Elsa/Honeymaren (Disney)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	Liberation

Gloves.

Smooth. Silken. Not uncomfortable.

(Not uncomfortable is not the same as comfortable.)

Lined in rows upon rows with the neat formality of soldiers.

(Strict.)

Snug.

They slip over her hands gently in her childhood.

Smooth, silken things.

They are made for comfort.

They are not unpleasant to the touch.

(Not unpleasant is not the same as pleasant.)

(Confining.)

Secure. Safe.

They are made for comfort – like her dresses, tailored by the finest and for the finest. For the queen that was to be.

She fashions her own dresses – spun of ice, inlaid with the pearl of her powers.

Woven magic.

They suit her better – suit the queen come down from the mountain, suit the Snow Queen.

In the Forest as in Arendelle – destinies – confining –

The spirits gave her powers to her.

They are not a curse but a gift.

(She should be happy… shouldn’t she?)

(She should be grateful, grateful like the little girl given her first gloves…)

And she is happy… happier than she was… but…

The Forest wind rustles like the footfall of dignitaries in Arendelle castle.

Destinies, destinies.

The way of the river is already woven.

Was already woven before her first steps.

There is something… not uncomfortable… in that.

Something secure.

As her gloves were secure – as her gloves were not uncomfortable – but no, not like her gloves – it can’t be so –

(Can’t it?)

She sighs – and her breath lingers in the air and makes her dwell on the wisps she saw in Ahtohallan, when she first felt the cold.

She melts her ice-gown like snow on the mountains.

Its pearl strands glisten and fall away like tears.

She is Elsa.

She spins her own fate, unspools it at her own will. No other’s.

Fate’s threads, the strands that unite into gloves, gowns, dresses – garments – she scatters to the winds.

The sun’s warmth dries her tears.

She steps out of her sandals of ice.

The earth is warm beneath her feet.

Her nudity is not a lack, not a vulnerability. It is a strength.

Her strength.

She is herself.

To another, the phrase “she is herself” could be a platitude – but to Elsa of Arendelle, first in line to the throne, gift of the spirits – whose life had not been hers even before her birth – whose life had been decided by her birth, yes, when she was born to a king and queen, but even before that when the spirits made her a gift for her mother’s action, a peace offering for her grandfather’s action, defined her by others even when raising her up – to Elsa, it is everything…

Nude like a goddess, a dryad, hamadryad, naiad – and yet unlike. Unlike, because she is incomparable to anything that has come before.

That is not arrogance.

That is self-love.

The self-love she felt when she first reached the heights of the North Mountain, a self-love that was distinct from the self-love she learned at Ahtohallan because she herself was the teacher. A self-love that she gave to herself.

No figure from before her birth gave it to her.

Honeymaren disturbs her reverie.

Elsa starts, but does not flee.

Honeymaren has seen her like this before.

In the river, in cool and secluded pools.

There is no vulnerability in this, but an intimacy. Not the intimacy that leads to love-making, no. Not that.

The intimacy of trust.

Honeymaren smiles sheepishly. “So, um, going for a dip?” she ventures.

The river is in the other direction.

“No, um…” Elsa fumbles. How can she give voice to her thoughts?

She does not need to. The sheepishness of Maren’s smile falls away. Understanding takes its place in the corners of her lips.

A softness fills Elsa’s heart, the softness that comes from the expectation of judgement – even when one knows there will be no judgment, one can still feel the dread of it, one’s body braces for the shame, especially is one is accustomed to it, self-love does not annihilate the memory of shame – and the relief when it does not come.

Honeymaren fumbles with her garments until she is as nude as Elsa, then spreads them out like a blanket upon the tawny grass. Some, she gives as a cushion to Elsa and the two of them sit, lounging in the warmth of the sun, laughing, talking…

For Elsa, who was set on paths before she knew any more than the rosy darkness of the womb, this communion with another is her agency over herself. This trust in another, this love of another, is her repudiation of destiny. A repudiation that does not exist as a repudiation, but as itself.

Like her nudity. It too is itself. For herself.


End file.
